He Sent Me, Not Carnations…
by Reise Talia
Summary: Hans Gruber and his wife celebrate their anniversary. Hans x Oc
1. Chapter 1

He sent me, not carnations, not roses, not chocolate, not gold, not platinum, not diamonds, not a card, not perfume, not on an expensive trip…he sent me himself. He came back to celebrate our anniversary. He accomplished another victory and he is coming home, again to me, safe and sound.

I picked up the simple note that was sent by mail. _The wolf howls._ Ah, I love how he begs! He chose to send it on hand-crafted stationary that he keeps on hand inside his planner. As he wrote it, he held his wrist down intentionally so that I could smell his slight scent of what sings to my heart as a brightly lit fire cooled with snows and warmed with glowing night skies. I had placed it on the dresser, the light from the sun highlighting the crème of the paper, softly and hungrily, every letter, word and syllable. Each note pauses in between the three words, taking in the eagerness and desire. His back arching back and my back arching forward, like the willow and oak of the forest of trees as they are bent by the steam, as I please him that pleases me. Mightily, tremendously, exceedingly, terrifyingly, dangerously, joyously, blissfully…happily as we united and unite day after day, night after night. Made our home within each others hearts and extended it outwards to encompass the Mother and formulate our only child together, thus far.

As I prepared for his homecoming, I thought of my dark angel. Broad and spacious is the road he travels, but selective in his company, tender in his love and caresses, soft in his voice, hard in his demeanor, deep in his acuity, protective in his growl, dangerous in his silence, weighty secrets in his mind, as Keeper of secrets. All of me wants all of him as he gives his all to me. Out comes his favorite dress: a simple golden silk gown that slips over my body and covers the floor when he wills it to.

I thought of his face, the richness of his eyes, glittering with sparks that fly. A lion with a full mane and roar, a panther that slips in and out of the night, the cheetah that speeds in his flight that will come into becoming an even stronger tiger that is the most deadly of all, like _his_ father. As I remembered his face, I felt his beard, his mane that he wears as a sign of his status in his family. I felt his lips, soft and smooth with a ferocity that belies his warm spirit that he hides all too often from those that would need it from him. I felt a wistful and sad feeling come into me, feeling my heart break more than a little for his one and only, his one and only child, Gabriella. He sees her and not, knows her and not, but he really is afraid of her, because he sees too much and feels too much underneath. With that, I decide to change my dress to one that will remind him of when he poured out his heart upon the altar, of starless skies, of moonlit seas, of glowing spirits, of warm nights, of cool breezes, of mysterious fog, of limitless stardust, of newly found paths, of the time he chose to accept his father's decision to have him marry me. _It was not hard to accept, al-Zabba_, his voice of the deep drum called in my ear in the deep breeze of the dark before the day of our wedding. _In fact, _he said with a smile that he reserved only for me, _it was far too easy. I was afraid that you would not accept me_, as he allowed me to see his vulnerability, unthinkable for all but me.

Each day gets better, our bond becomes closer, stronger and more powerful, immutable and clear. It is not sweet as rain or its rainbow, but as divine as electricity. _Take a chance with me_, he asked me because I did not as yet, say yes. Oh my dark angel, your wings cast a shadow over your heart. Show love for yourself, allow yourself a radiant beam of light to touch the soul of you that your mother attempted to steal and replace it with her black, raven spirit.

But I must leave that musing for later for the master of my heart is here.


	2. Chapter 2

This night, the breath of need and desire enters into their room underneath the sliding door of their bedroom. Ghosting along the alabaster-like stone floors, the remainder of clothing they once wore, scattered and placed within its wild embraces, gathering strength from their released life force. Pausing to look at the frames of those they hold dear. The smiles, the faces, the eyes, the descendants, the ancestors, the glory, the love, the lives of those that inhabit each of them take place on the stage of life. The night echoes their heartbeats, their yearnings are repeated in a call and response, and their tears overflow from the well of joy, sorrow, need, passion, and anger to turn it into a thing of beauty. The breath enters into their nostrils and energizes their limbs so that they become bound in a universe all their own.

Outside the air is not yet the entity it is inside. It sways the trees, walks in and out of the palms, causing their fingerlike fronds to touch and tap it as a poet touches and taps a piano's keys. It ghosts the sands, gazing upon their shared footprints, listening intently to their whispers as they are even taken up into the clouds, the ones that fall underneath the moon's spell, the silver wolf. It is showing his glistening hair as stars evolving into the cosmos.

His chest rises and falls with hers. His hands softly stroke and mindfully caress her body underneath the silken sheets of their bed.

_She that pleases me._

He smiles as he beholds her, her eyes fluttering. He holds her tight, realizing it has been too long since he touched her.

_I wish I could say all that my heart desires. You are the wind that speaks to the leaves that stir up stories of love that belong to you and me, lover._

As his hands ghost over the small of her back, he remembers their earlier days when he was being introduced to her family. He went along with what his father had wanted. His father wanted a stronger noble lineage and their line was being held tenaciously, with a jaguar like hold, yet it was unraveling, strand by strand. While the pure Germaneness of their blood was ancient, strong and pure, their nobility was not, swiftly diminishing with every birth.

There was a night that we were standing before tents that had seen better days, to see her father. I waited outside while father went inside to speak to hers. I was barely twenty, finishing my masters and going on to pursue my doctorates in physics and advanced engineering when father had called me home. At that time, the family was spending increasing more time in Malta, but I was to go home to Germany to undertake my place within the house.

_Our house, he sits amongst the tall pines and low hills, the shorter or taller mountains, the wider and narrower valleys. Our house that dawned its origins in the centuries that the rivers carved out its settlements, when the world was soft and new. Perhaps the air was clearer then._

_He bought me down, past its many rooms. Rooms that remain fixated, with time not knowing whether anyone came or not. There was no rot, nor dampness; all swept clean, timbers fixed, walls coated, but no life was there. There was no soul there. Just whispers, soft and deceitfully invisible energy that ghosted its hallways, luring the someone to stay. He took me past all of this to the ancient undergrounds where past winters were spent, huddled together, banded and bonded by fires and where cattle, flock, herd and human dwelt. The roots of the trees covered the surface, siphoning the secrets held deep within these bowels, growing strong, thick, powerful, majestic. The secrets of all the people are held within their many veins, wooden, spongy flesh, green lungs, knarled feet, bones and muscles. They react with a sentience that is palpable. This is why Germany is, to a certain extant, in love with her forest. For Germany knows this and knows that the soul of the people inhabit not just the houses that they build, but the air, sea, land and that the Gods walk, run and light themselves upon us. I saw the levels of civilization, my own people, remembering all the times, time and half a time ago, perhaps. _

_I saw a kernel of corn here, a piece of broken vessel there, a shredded piece of rope here; time showing itself as it was, here and there, placing markers for me to remember. And he held it up for me to see, deep in the throat of the body of this peritoneal space, my true age, my true self, my true nature, my people promised me to never allow me to forget. The dull metal caught the fire of the torch that my father held in his hand, the reflected runes centered on the shield was symbiotically related with the same ones on the walls and rocks._ "Do you know what you are seeing", my father's low voice echoed down into the pit. _I nodded a dull acknowledgement, an understanding of sorts, unknowing to myself; I must have always known. I did not need my father to even tell what they were; for while I did not know the names, their meanings my bones knew full well._

"These are the symbols of your ancestors, these ravens." "But, we are not followers of Wodan." "No, but he is Aesir, so we must give our worship to him. Though, we are followers of Donar, Sif and Balder." _He then held up another thing, an old necklace with a piece of old skin._ "The skin of the wolf. Your mother was a lover of Loki and his son." _Though I was not aware of this, it explained much._ "Then you understand your name of Beowulf." _At that instant point of time, I remembered what could have been forgotten if I allowed myself to be lost in the surreal world of non-experience above._

_One of the Gods allowed a drift of air to shape itself into a form before my eyes. My father did not see it, but I did. However, no one can accuse me of being seiomaor._ But he did see that I remembered a fact, because he said, "Yes, war wolf. That is what she took it to mean." _And by that he meant that is what she wanted for me and possibly, now that I think of it, for herself. Although, I am not sure that I can admit that to Gabriella, even though, I am sure she knows far more than I can even permit myself to see...who could possibly want to admit that your own mother was in love with...I cannot._

_I want to think of my beloved here, sleeping so soundly, nestled in my arms. _

Indeed, his eyes catch sight of the relic of the night's passion disgarded. The thing that makes him think of starless skies, of moonlit desert sea drift, of glowing spirits from the warmth of fires, of cool breezes, of mysterious fog, of limitless stardust, of the time he chose to accept his father's decision to marry this divine entity in the flesh. His chest feels her breast, the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin, the fire in her spirit, burning him tonight and every night, radiating from her and warming him. He feels the nakedness in between her legs; his manhood rises to meet it. She stirs.

_No, my love, my mother hated you, and in the strength that I can credit my father with, he chose you over her protest and for that I am eternally glad and grateful. I can give you diamonds, gold, platinum, money, but you chose me, and I chose you. I live for my life and my soul._

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Please feel free to review. I look forward to your comments.


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